Perceiving Pigment
by Emery Wright
Summary: It took a girl-child to save his life and cure his heart. He had been colorblind so long and now the world unfolded before him in an array of color, taste and texture.
1. Vexed Vermillion

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Perceiving Pigment**

Chapter One

**Vexed Vermillion **

"I am tired I am weary I could sleep for a thousand years A thousand dreams that would awake me Different colors made of tears"

Venus in Furs, The Velvet Underground

The walls spoke to him. He did not recognize them, but they recognized him and they respectively hovered at the edge of his magic, waiting for something.

Two things were immediately clear. One: He was home. Two: This was not his bed at Spinner's End.

The contradiction fueled him to rise from the canopied bed and survey the room for information. The windows were gloomy with early evening light and heavy curtains. As if in response to his thoughts, the lamp and scones lighted themselves and he could see the room more clearly. There was dark plush carpet and dark cherry furniture. There was a lack of color, either the room was simply too dark, or it was some sort of side-effect from- he stopped. The corners were dark but not enough to hide any threats. A noise from beyond the walls perked his ears. He clenched his wand and wondered if he had heard the noise or if the walls had communicated it to him, propelling the vibration further than it should've wavered.

As soon as he exited the room, he knew exactly what room the sound was coming from, and although he couldn't say he had known the layout of the house at all, it unfolded in his mind, as if it had been waiting for him in some hidden cache of his brain. He frowned. The one thing he had owned completely was his mind; to find unknown secrets from within was unsettling. Perhaps in death one's mind was not one's own.

But in this dark corridor he felt uncertain that he was dead at all. For now the image of that vast white nothingness seemed to him a dream and the pain in his limbs a sharp reminder of his return to hell.

He found her in the foyer, blasting the front door. Her hexes flashed from her wand like swooping birds, but then bounced off the doorframe in great displays of orange-red light. One hex rebounded onto the chandelier, creating a spectacular burst of light and causing broken crystal pieces to rain from the ceiling. They spewed down and caught themselves in that impossibly bushy head of hair, momentarily stalling her casting.

"Miss Granger," he growled. "I would appreciate you not attempting to blast through that door, the noise is quite painful to bear." Even this sentence lacked the amenities of his voice. Gone was the velvety tongue, replaced with sandpaper and brine. He cleared his throat. The wall scones lighted themselves softly.

"Professor Snape!" she turned, and wobbled as her foot slipped slightly on the debris. Her face was flushed as red as her hexes.

"Could you contain yourself for one moment, Miss Granger, and not go blazing in with wands wrecking havoc – as you Gryffindors are so painfully and fatally willing to do?"

"I'm sorry," she had the decency to look ashamed. She scooped up the crystal pieces with a sweep of her wand and they hovered in the air a moment, wobbling as if ready to fall. A surge of energy followed from the ceiling, bringing the pieces into their proper places on the chandelier. One more mystery he would have to add to the list of the mystery house. Miss Granger's confusion was overridden by her exhaustion and she looked ready to fall upon the floor.

"Shall we move into the library?" He led the way through the long corridor, listening, not looking for evidence of her compliance. He opened the double doors and found this room to be much more to his liking than the foyer or the parlor they had passed.

She gasped as she immediately went to examine the titles upon the shelves. He hoped she had enough of her intellect left not to touch anything at the moment.

He settled down in the dark green winged-back chair, facing a fireplace that was already lighted. He had a few things with which to occupy his mind. He knew she had abandoned the titles –for the time being- for he could feel her behind him, waiting expectantly. He admired her restraint; she waited a full fifteen minutes before croaking out a "Sir?"

She cleared her throat, readying to try again.

He let out a breath that sounded more like a hiss than he had intended.

"Let us list the facts. One: I am alive, and by the sore" –he used this word lightly- "feeling in my neck I will assume that Nagini's bite was no mere nightmare."

She nodded.

"Two: You are alive, and here as well. This leads me to believe that you are somehow, if not directly, responsible for our current predicament." She opened her mouth to protest – but he already had his hand up and a smirk turned her way. "Thus you might also be responsible for my current state of being alive."

If she was expecting any direct thanks she was far less intelligent than the other Professors had proclaimed. She was still.

"Three: I had never known this house before, yet it knows me. It responds to my thoughts and recognizes me as heir and master. Therefore it could only be the Prince Manor."

"Four: Someone tended to this fire, and kept this house in shape. There is at least one house elf in residence." He lifted his hand at her sudden shift in posture. "We shall not investigate this matter until we have displayed all the facts."

He breathed out. The taste of the poison was still in his throat.

"Five: We cannot leave these grounds. Do you have anything to add, Miss Granger?" He finally looked directly at her. Her face looked so young, still rounded and firm, but her eyes were something strange. He looked away.

"I remember," she started, "after you got bitten, you gave Harry some of your memories, I remember thinking-"

His throat constricted.

"Facts, Miss Granger," he choked out. He stared at the fire again.

"Right. I stayed with you, attempting to get the poison out of your body. I always carried a bezoar on me, you see, ever since Ron was-" she stopped herself this time. "I was running out of things to try when the cry went out."

"The cry that Harry was dead." He wondered if he actually remembered it or…everything had been so hazy then. He had been dying after all. Perhaps he had already been dead.

"Yes, sir."

"He wouldn't have chosen it."

"I know that, sir."

"But I did. I chose death. I chose death and peace and that final release into oblivion." That was why the fire was so blindingly bright and the shadows so vastly dark. He had never known such contrast as returning to this dark world. He turned to her, something caught in his throat that made his voice rough, unlike his own. "You took that from me. How did you take that from me?"

Her eyes blazed like the fire in indignation. Two undying embers full of determinacy. That strangeness he did not like, that strangeness that was altogether too familiar.

"I gave up." The thought was so preposterous that a laugh escaped from his throat. If his voice had been rough before, it was nothing compared to the sound of a man's laugh who hasn't laughed in over fifteen years. It was the sound of an animal dying. He was losing focus. He focused again on those eyes, those eyes that now gazed past him.

"I gave myself up. I thought I chose death for myself instead of you. I gave you my blood." She followed a faint scar across her arm.

"Blood."

The word boiled in his mouth, surged up like a hot bubble through his lips. So this is what the Little-Miss-Know-It-All had gotten them into, a whole category of magic that was as fickle as Potter's temper. And Dark as well, at the very least the type of grey that could lead one down the Dark path. A surge of violent energy coursed through his veins but he forced himself to relax his hands, to let his wand lie dormant.

"And I don't suppose you had the time to calculate the repercussions of your little ritual." The arithmancy was difficult, but not beyond her abilities. The only thing she would have lacked was time. He felt the laughter coalesce in his stomach and this time he contained it with his breath.

"You were losing so much blood, sir, and I knew you'd be gone soon if I didn't try something drastic."

"Drastic is indeed the word," he rasped and it seemed the laughter, which might've turned painfully hysterical, was gone for now. "As well as dangerous, stupid, perilous, impetuous." He felt a small measure of himself return to him with the persona of angry professor.

"Sir? I have to get out there. I have to help Harry."

He clapped his hands.

"House elf!" he called.

Immediately, a loud crack signaled the arrival of a small grey creature. He was wearing a dark faded tunic-like piece of clothing. As close to clothing as the rules would allow.

"Master calls? I is Creeky and I is pleased to serve Master Prince and his Mistress."

Miss Granger made an odd choking noise.

"What happened to the late Master Prince?" he asked.

"He died in the war. At the great Battle of Hogwarts! Creeky found you and brought you home, the new master." The house elf shifted his bright blue eyes, and grasped his own arms with surprisingly dainty fingers. "Creeky did bad? I is sorry, Creeky hurt himself for being bad."

Those dainty fingers dragged across the greenish pallid skin leaving bright red marks.

"Don't!" She rushed forward, grasping the house elf with both arms.

"Stop," he said, to both of them. He glared until she removed herself from the house elf. "Do not harm yourself, you have done no harm. Tell me about the Battle. Do you know what happened to Harry Potter?"

"He has defeated he-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named!" He looked up at the closed curtains, was the sun rising? For she was grinning like she had seen the sun after months of darkness.

"How did you come across this information?"

"Creeky be right back."

He would not open the curtains. He would contain himself, he would control himself. He would be as he always had been. It was a dark hell.

There was a small crack and then a louder one second later. Creeky nearly toppled over with the weight of the wireless machine and set it on the side table next to Severus.

"…celebrations all over the country. Mr. Potter himself denied engaging in partying and is instead searching for his lost friend, the Muggleborn Hermione Granger, and should anyone have any knowledge of her whereabouts the reward he is offering is generous indeed…"

"We won. He did it. He really did."

He saw her smile widen, and he felt a pang of something at the thought of being so free, of having as bright a future as she did at the moment, when everything seemed saved. Perhaps some sunlight crept through the folds of cloth.

She stopped her gasping leaps, and the tipsy world righted itself too suddenly.

"I've got to tell him I'm alright. I've got to let them know somehow."

She continued on, but a large book caught his eye. It was prominently displayed on a pedestal, and he wondered how the bookworm had managed to keep her fingers off of it for so long. For, as he drew nearer, he could not turn away from the smoky scent of leather and ink. It drew him forward and he let a finger slide down the surface of the tome.

_The Royal House of Prince_, he snorted. The title was perhaps a bit presumptuous. He then sorted through the contents quickly; he wanted to see his mother, her fair picture and then-

Below the picture of his mother, a dark startling woman, was his scowling face, but next to him was-

The slammed the book closed.

"Are you listening to me? Did you-" she stopped, lips still parted, eyes wide like a young girl's for all that she was a woman. "What did you find?"

He fled from her.

* * *

If there was one thing Hermione Granger knew how to do, it was to make lists. Already in her mind there were a swarming number of questions, facts that needed to be put to memory and things that had to be addressed. She found a desk on the far side of the library and set to work.

Find a way to contact Harry and the others.

Find my parents and reverse the spellwork.

Figure out Snape – how to ask Severus -

She crossed the last item out and rewrote: Research Blood Magic.

She held the tip of the quill near her mouth for a moment, and then wrote at the top of the page: Figure out how to get out of Prince Manor.

If her list of articles seemed akin to Professor Snape's listing of facts in any way, she shut it out of her mind for the time being.

After a pause she rewrote Snape's list of facts, trying to write word-for –word as much as she could remember.

Number five stood out to her. She began a search of the house. It was too large for her to have been able to scour it in its entirety, but after forty-five minutes she felt certain that Snape was not inside the Prince Manor. At the very least he would have heard her scrambling around.

Then, as she waited for Snape to return, she scoured the library for any useful looking books. She heaved a few into a pile on the desk and began her work. Intermittently, her mind would fill with the image of Snape's ghostlike visage, his stark, dark eyes gazing at her as if they were miles apart. She wondered then, if he had truly come back from the grave at all.

* * *

"Your Number Five was wrong," was the first thing she said to him. Snape didn't care for formalities, and truth be told, she didn't mind getting right down to business either. Small talk and formalities seemed a waste of time to her.

"Please refrain from stating the obvious, Miss Granger," he said. His eyes still looked feral, empty at one moment, hungry the next. He looked most like himself when he addressed her formally.

"I may amend Number Five to state that only you were trapped within the Prince grounds, but I shall have to amend it again very shortly. How much do you know about pureblood traditions?"

"I've never had much occasion to study it in depth, especially since the Hogwarts Library and bookstore lack any useful books on the subject."

"Yes, because most families wish to keep their traditions secret, and what isn't secret is simply common knowledge to those that grew up in a magical environment. Well, it seems that we have both taken up the Prince name. I, by virtue of being the last member of its bloodline, and you, by submitting yourself under my care and jurisdiction."

"But I didn't-"

"Your exact wording when I asked you what happened was that you 'gave up'. Now exactly what you gave up has been muddled by a lack of preparation, but judging by your position in the Prince Family Tree we can assume you gave up your familial ties. Now, you either chose to continue to argue your point or you may accept this ring so that you may join your friends in their celebrations."

The ring was held there in his palm. Gleaming opalescent, the Prince emblem, a knot of vines entrapping a bird, was carved into the stone.

She nodded. "Is there some sort of ritual?"

He took the ring with two of his long fingers. He stared at it a moment, and she thought him lost or obliviated or- and then he returned his solemn gaze to her. He held out the ring so that the garnish stone caught the firelight and bowed slightly toward her.

"Hermione Jane Granger, by accepting this ring you are accepting your adoption into the Prince Family and Household and will hereafter take the Prince name and all responsibility associated with representing the Royal House of Prince."

"I do accept this ring and all responsibility it represents," she said. He put the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand; his fingers cool against her skin.

"You trust me." He kept hold of her hand.

"Yes." His hand tightened, grabbing her around her forearm, and something surged through it, up her arms and into that dark heaviness that was her heart. It's just a muscle, she told herself, even as her eyes were still petrified by the penetrating glare of Severus Snape -now Prince- merely inches away from her own.

"How long have you been studying the Dark Arts?" He breathed the words so that the air caressed her face and the darkness swelled within her.


	2. Umber Undying

Disclaimer: Not mine.

**Perceiving Pigment**

Chapter Two

**Umber Undying**

_O, said the Man to the Moon, What do you know of Death?_

_The Great Moon yawned, What business have you with the definer of your kind?_

_The man spoke much but said naught._

"I needed to know everything about what we had to go up against. I needed to _know_ all I could. I'm expected to know everything. It's the only way I felt useful," She said. He thought she might be developing a fever.

"It becomes more difficult, the more you know." He realized he was still holding her arm. It was warm on one side, cool on the darkened inner side that had not faced the fire.

"More difficult to deny it."

"Yes," he hissed. "Knowing that you can have so much more by succumbing to the chaos of infinite possibilities. If it seems too good to be true, it is. Surrendering to that madness gives one only the illusion of control. That is the most important thing to me, to remain in control."

"In a way I feel stronger by denying it. Just the knowledge of the power that I could possess –it's enough to stop me from wielding it. That control, perhaps that is what is so alluring."

"Until you think it's worth the risk." He looked at her, sitting on the sofa, one leg bent up so that her chin rested upon it. So flexible and nimble, so young. He did not particularly liked that she had drawn a comparsion in their mutual need for control. "I was not worth that risk. You risked tearing your soul."

"But you are. And I didn't tear my soul, though I'm not sure yet exactly how, or what, and I think I'm crazy for not already sitting down and calculating it out," she said. She wet her lips. The fire in the grate was dying down. "Above whatever petty issues Harry had with you, you had to know that we respected you. Such sacrifice does not deserve death."

He did not move.

"I need to see them," she said. He could not deny her. He went outside.

He did not find that which he wanted for in the dark night. The moon was glowing such a bright orange that he had mistaken it for the sun and thought his eyes had merely fried by gazing directly at it for too long.

For oh, if she thought she might be crazy, he knew he was so.

As only those who had known themselves to be dead could know.

She had really avoided his question, dazzled him with the night, and pulled him along on her next adventure. Yes, he told himself, it was she who pulled him.

He blamed the shaking after he'd gone into the family's vault under the manor on the aftereffects of all these revelations. Surely, it would take more time for him to adjust to life again, and he surmised, as he felt his magic connect to Miss Granger's (no- Prince), that their connection required them to be in the same vicinity. Which brought him to another matter – What was he to call her?

A charcoal grey cloud moved over the moon in one long vast strip that merely muffled the glow; it could not contain that fire.

And she, eyes glowing like the amber moonlight, followed him down the dark path. He could feel those eyes on his dark form.

And she, far fairer than the moon she was lighted by (thought only by that part of his mind he thought he had put to rest long ago) followed him down the dark path.

It almost muffled the constant pain. Or perhaps she merely contained it temporarily.

He felt as if he would burst.

* * *

Outside of the confines of the house she felt her body relax, unfurling tense muscles she hadn't realized were tense. The darkness was cool, but the ground was still warm from the sun. She smiled at the thought that it was summer and the dark Lord was dead.

They apparated a short distance away from the Burrow. The structure's windows glowed with warm light. The back door was open to the cool breeze. It would never have been open like that during the war.

As she drew closer she saw him shift and withdraw into himself.

"I will wait here," he said, feet now planted firmly, a few yards from the house.

She stopped at the open door; the savory scent of berry pie filled her nose and mouth. The kitchen was just as she remembered it, warm and cluttered.

"Hello?" she called. No one answered, but she could hear feet shuffling down the stairs.

"Mum, could you-" Ginny stopped in the doorway.

"Hermione!" she yelped and promptly crashed into her. The robes in the redhead's arms tangled up in Hermione's as they clung to each other.

"Ron! Harry! It's Hermione!" Ginny called up. She hiccupped, and Hermione felt her hair, damp from Ginny's tears. Perhaps her own as well. It was hard to determine a consistent line of narration when everything was happening so quickly and the boys were there, hanging onto her arms, her shoulders, getting tangled in her hair. She thought of darkness.

She untangled herself with a few deep breaths. They were all three grinning wildly, but something caught her attention.

There on the table was the beginning of their memorials, planned out on sparse parchment, bare of extra syllables. It was quite neat actually and she had to give Molly credit for the straightness of the lines and the sketched form of the tomb. A tomb worthy of those who would "remain undying in the hearts of those who lives they had saved". Something clenched in her stomach and the edges of her vision grew blurry. The light which had seemed to glow so warmly now seemed to fade like dirty amber.

"It's been months, Mione," Harry said quietly. Their faces were tense now, confused but expectant.

That was why the night had felt cool for this time of summer. For time had tricked her and fall was just around the corner. The life she was supposed to be falling back into was right around the corner.

"What's the date?"

"August the fourteenth."

Over two months, she calculated. A list of questions formed in her mind before she could register the information emotionally: how had she 'slept' so long, who had taken care of her, of _them_, how had that house elf…

They were staring at her strangely. All her life she had tried not to be that person, the person worthy of odd stares. She knew she had to restore their faith in Hermione Granger.

"However on earth am I going to prepare for NEWTs when classes start in two weeks?"

Their faces broke out into grins. She felt the emptiness in her stomach grow.

"Oi, there's our Mione, already thinking about those blasted tests." Ron hugged her again, too tightly.

"We really missed you. We'll understand if you don't want to talk about-" Harry was rambling as they moved away from the table.

She felt his presence in the spot they had vacated; the air was heavy with his darkness.

"Snape!" Ron's eyes had grown larger than Luna Lovegood's eyes. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

Snape placed the tip of one finger on the parchment. His eyes moved swiftly back and forth over it.

"This was not necessary." He stood like a statue, looking down at the parchment, not at them. The light refused to warm his skin and simply left it as it was, pale, pasty and ghostly.

"Well, it isn't now, I suppose," Ron blurted.

Snape titled his head slightly. She found herself entranced by the subtleties, how he made so little communicate so much.

"Mr. Weasley, always ready to state the obvious," he drawled in that low voice that sent shivers down any schoolchild's spine. Ron shifted his eyes, looking for an escape. Harry jumped in quickly.

"What he means, sir, is that we shall have to rework the statue to account for...er, you being alive." Harry's eyes still blinked at the tall man.

"I suspect you haven't have time to tell them everything?" It took her a second to realize that he was addressing her.

"Not quite." She was surprised that her voice was clear.

"And, Mr. Weasley, my name is no longer Snape. It is Prince. As is Miss Hermione Prince here. I'll be waiting outside."

She knew he must've enjoyed the look of confusion upon their faces. They were flustered, which made it all that much harder to explain the events. Once she had said it all as calmly as possible, she knew they would simply need time for it to sink in.

"Are you going to live with him, really?" Ginny said, a bit of awe in her voice.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm alright."

"You can't leave so soon," Ron complained. He brought his fingers underneath her chin. She had to meet his eyes and the depth of hurt that lay within them. "I missed you."

"A lot of people were killed, or missing. We thought that you-" Ginny looked about ready to cry again. Hermione held her hand.

"I'll tell Snape, Prince, Mr. Prince that I will be staying the night here."

He was standing out there like a dark statue, so still. The moon had risen and was less orange, merely that constant white glow.

"I'm going to stay the night here. I didn't realize it's been so long." When he didn't reply she added: "I think they need to know that I'm still me."

She wished she could see his face. He gave a slight nod. She opened her mouth to—but there was a crack and he was gone. She wasn't sure what she would've said. She felt sorry for him. Even with a life of his own, free of any master, he was still alone.

She knew that he couldn't have stayed here.

Even she had trouble with the constant hugging and touching. Wasn't once enough to verify that she was as alive as she looked?

She told the story again, the truth, the facts. It did not cease to amaze the entire Weasley family and soon the house was filled with extended relatives and friends: Bill and Fleur, she round with child, and Angelina came with George, and Neville had heard and stopped by with a group who had been clubbing (Lavender, Dean and Luna among them) even though it was nearing three in the morning.

Many were missing. She wished she could have the time to grieve for Fred and Tonks and Remus, but everyone else had already grieved for months and it seemed selfish. She almost wished she could be alone again. Well, alone with him again (she still did not know what to call him).

As the adults began to leave for home or settle down to sleep, Harry, Ron and Ginny began to fill her in on what had transpired in the latter part of the battle.

Harry's brows were furrowed as he retold Snape's memories about Lily Potter. Hermione clutched her teacup.

"I didn't think to keep Snape's memories secret. We had thought him dead for certain, and I just wanted everyone to know about what he'd sacrificed for love and goodness."

"I think he'll understand," she said. "In time."

"You never doubted him?" he asked. She looked out the window, at the lightening sky.

"He died for it, for us, for her." The image of Lily seared her mind and would not leave. It was odd now to see him as a devoted friend, with a love that transcended death. "I'm getting rather tired."

"I'll walk you out," Ron said.

He stood with her outside in the pre-dawn twilight. This was her favorite time of day, when most everyone was asleep and the world was quiet. He had a lazy smile. Eyes half-lidded, he swung his arm around her waist and nestled his head in her hair.

"Ronald," she said, though she knew that words would ruin the moment.

"Yes, Mione," he breathed.

"I'll see you at school. Soon, very soon."

She had to turn away from his pleading eyes.

She stretched out against the cobalt blue sky, and though she was tired, she anticipated doing all the things on her list and smiled as she apparated away.

* * *

He held the Manor in his head like it was a spell, but larger. The walls were merely extensions of himself, the wards communicating to him every life-form in its jurisdiction. But he still had to search for the room that would be his.

"Too much light in here," he said. The beams of sunlight streaming through the windows were golden and cast the room in dark bronze.

"I like it," she said. She had been in a good mood all morning and it pained him.

"The sunshine would ruin the potions," he growled.

"Stating the obvious, sir?"

He moved quickly into the hallway, ignoring her blatant disrespect, the teasing lilt to her voice, those eyes.

The night had been difficult. He did not sleep. But then, he had just slept 3 months, and he normally didn't sleep much anyway. It hadn't helped his neck. Or the string of magic in his body that felt empty, incomplete. When she returned that morning, he had known it instantly. He had so much more energy when he could see her face. He might be young again.

Facts kept accumulating in his mind but he had difficulty drawing conclusions from them.

"Next," he said, holding open the door. It took him half a minute to remember to breathe.

"Here it is," he whispered.

It was a vast space with two long dark worktables. He immediately had the urge to touch them and he satisfied his craving, drawing his long fingers across the grainy wood. He finally breathed and took in the dust and it almost filled his lungs fully. He almost felt-

He found that as time moved on in his new life that he was less obsessed with lines and more interested in form. He enjoyed the curve of that aged silver cauldron, the texture of the wooden table, the sight of her rounded curves as she slipped between the tall cabinets, hips barely brushing against the wooden casement. What he could see with his eyes was not just a flat expanse of images but a composition of teasing depth and fullness which he longed to explored.

"Most of the ingredients are expired," she said, face buried in the labels of the rows of glass containers.

"Do deign from snooping around," he drawled.

He was not disappointed by the brilliant shade of crimson that flooded her cheeks as she turned around. His mouth twitched.

He breathed in the dust, the old smoky smells, and thought he might be able to -almost- find home here. It was a room he had always wished to have as his own.

"It shouldn't be too hard to get this lab into working order," she said, taking an awkward step forward. "You could develop potions again."

Even as they tried to look into the future, the past always snuck into the present, it wormed its way into conversation and pulled at his insides.

"Sadly, it will have to wait for our return," He countered.

"Sir?" She turned her head, hair spilling across her shoulders.

"Do you wish your parents to live without knowledge of their daughter for the rest of their lives?"

She took in a breath.

"I didn't know you knew. It is something I am anxious to do." Of course, she didn't know he had read her parchment. She was still a teenager, prone to leaving things lying around; for all that everyone acclaimed her maturity.

"I will accompany you."

She gave him a measured look. He couldn't find the words to tell her how much pain he would be in if they were separated so far and for so long. It was too soon since the ritual, too soon for his weary, torn soul.

"Where are they?" he asked instead.

"Australia."

He winced.


	3. Obtuse Orpiment

**Disclaimer:** not mine.

**Perceiving Pigment**

Chapter 3

**Obtuse Orpiment**

"Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings  
A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.  
The mind is its own place, and in it self  
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n."

-John Milton's _Paradise Lost_, Book I, 252-255

"I don't recall you much liked flying," he said, trying to find a bearable sitting position. The seat was too small, the headrest too short, and his knees settled up against the back of the seat in front of him. She had offered him the window seat, and he had taken it. Now he understood the perks of being closer to the aisle. She could get up whenever, whereas he would have to climb over her legs.

"Not on a broom. But here, you don't even have to see the open sky if you don't want to. We're enclosed, protected." There was not much to see besides the pervading darkness, but she seemed to avoid looking out the window just the same.

"By muggle magic," he murmured at the clouds.

"Science," she stated, with the slightest huff.

"I know," he said. He blinked as the sun caught the clouds. "It is second nature for me to refer to muggle things as if I don't know anything about them."

There was a pause. He felt her squirm just the slightest bit.

"Oh, of course," she said. She drew in a breath, but the awaited interrogation did not emerge.

He was surprised that she did not pry, because he had said more than he had intended to say. Perhaps the war had changed her more than thought. Of course, it changed everyone.

He attempted to stretch his leg upward a bit, but it bumped against hers. His heartbeat seemed to jolt or skip, in some manner of irregularity that did not suit him, no, this would not due at all, if he couldn't keep his mind in line-

"You were the one who insisted we couldn't use magical means to travel."

He stopped again, wondering what he had said out loud. Then he realized he had been muttering about space and muggle's sense of architecture.

Of course, he wanted to say, he couldn't very well stride into the ministry and request an international portkey without being waylaid until next week. Neither could she for that matter. Then he caught the look of mirth in her eyes and simply sighed.

It was all very tiring to be saying one thing and thinking another and not trusting your mind to do the right one which way.

He looked out the window, trying to discern the clouds until the sky turned umber and glowed with the dawn and still he could not close his weary eyes.

At some point, the warning for seatbelts and impending landing blinked red all along the darkened plane. He blinked and tried to swallow despite the cotton in his mouth. The lack of water made his mouth feel skeletal.

It took far too long to get off the plane. He could feel the strain the tight enclosed space had put on his back, the alignment of his spine. It even somehow crept along that wound he was always so painfully conscious of.

Hermione sped through the muggle rituals of long-distance transportation with a grace he had trouble keeping up with. First the florescent lights had blinded him; what caused muggles this insatiable need to see every single detail in the world around them? Hardly any of said information was worth noticing. As a result too much information flooded his senses and it was difficult to discern what was important and what he should discard immediately. He determined that muggles relied far too heavily on their sense of sight. If they turned down their lights and allowed themselves to experience the world as nature intended, they might find out a lot more about said world.

He thoroughly despised the mass of muggles moving much too swiftly in different directions, jostling him. They caught him off guard so often that he wished to hold onto her hand.

Just so that he would not lose her, of course. Instead, he kept sight of her hair and did lose himself in a strange land. She hailed a taxi and they were soon out in the yellow deserts of Australia.

The landscape blinded him. Sunlight burst through even the covered shade of the taxi. The driver left the windows open to the cool air. It was early spring on this side of the world.

The taxi stopped in front of a modest house with a few acres of bare land spread around it. It looked simple against the bright sky. The type of house a child might draw. He followed her down the dirt path, to the wooden porch, and the doorway she must walk through. Through the screen door they saw the sitting room. A room beyond was lighted with the type of warm clear light that dissipated quickly when it met the shadows. On her knock, a woman came out from the light, walked across the creaky floor and pulled her face close to the screen. He could see the darkened hollows of her eyes, the thin plane of her cheeks, the drawn lips.

On this horridly bright day, even the sandpaper in his lungs and the thorns crawling along his spine could not quell his newfound thirst for life. For, he had found something in common with her strife in the desolate garden of a foreign land looking into her beloved mothers' eyes and seeing nothing. There was no return of care or love in her blank face; just curious apprehension and wariness. It sucked his breath from him, he knew well the feeling.

She faltered.

He had hoped she was stronger than this – he had no intention of getting roped into helping her. It was her task and she should find her strength to follow through with it. Nevertheless, his arm moved out and lightly touched the small of her back, steadying her. Perhaps he imagined the surge of energy that seemed to flow through her, grounding her feet and lifting her chin to meet her mother's eyes.

"I am the daughter you've always wished you had."

Keyed to her voice and magic; clever girl.

He opened the screen door, hoping to solidify her connection.

Mrs. Granger's eyes widened, then fluttered, her brain processing vast amounts of information. And when her mind was too busy to maintain her center of gravity, Severus swooped in and caught her falling figure in his shirted arms.

* * *

She had always kept journals. They were not, however, filled with fancies of boys and petty schoolgirl drama. That is not to say they weren't filled with emotions and served as an outpouring of her soul. Hermione's journals were filled with lines, lines that went across to start a new start a new thought, lines that went down to separate columns in charts and graphs, lines of numbers that became thoughts and symbols. She had developed her own code and she felt it safe to say that no one would bother decoding it; even she herself was not sure always what she had meant by a particular marking. It was imprecise, the only convoluted thing Hermione allowed in her life, because she could always write more to clarify to herself.

How intriguing to figure out, soon after she started Hogwarts, that there was a whole realm of study devoted to the magical properties of numbers and constructs such as the ones she herself had devised, albeit as an amateur.

Over this past year when she was stuck in the tent, she had taken out the journals which featured her parents prominently. She liked remembering the trips they had taken, the things they had given or denied her, even what flavor ice cream they had all chosen. There was a portion of her parent's essences expressed by her, embedded in her memories, spread out across the pages in lines and numbers and words that were elusive and multidimensional, just like they were. Hermione knew that a name written on a piece of paper did not adequately express that person, but was a reference to a reference, a shadow of the signified. She still read them, especially when the horcrux necklace was heavy around her neck.

She used those memories, and her memories of longing for those moments, and opened up the parts of her mother's mind she had sealed away.

_Remember when…_ her voice echoed in some other place, or some place here too small to reach those outside of it. The memories kept flowing, one leading to the next, even those memories she was none too fond of. It would be easy to stop herself, to block off the arguments they had engaged in, most of which were about magic. However, she felt it was the right thing to do to restore _all_ of the memories, no matter what harm may come to her for it.

It felt like an eternity. When she came to her body, she almost didn't want to return to it, especially the pain, the lingering traces of the Cruciatus. It felt sharper, returning to it after being so free and bodiless for a short while.

Her vision swarmed black, then returned in a cloudy haze.

Severus was holding her mother's body. The screen door was held slightly open at her backside. A couch behind Severus and her mother partially hid the other figure in the room. There loomed her father, something long and sliver gleamed in the sunlight-

"No!" she yelled, jumping up, pain shooting through her legs, but still she moved forward, even as he saw his eyes widen further in fear of her.

The loud bang went off.

Glass shattered, more light poured in and reflected against the flying fragments. Everything else seemed frozen.

The blasted curtain settled down, then ruffled lightly in the breeze from the now glassless window.

"You nearly shot our daughter!" her mother screamed, whacking her father with her kitchen rag.

"What?! We don't have- Miriam what are you going on about?" His face looked so terribly old, like this summer had taken years of their lives, even as she had tried to save them. His hair was whiter, thrown up in a flurry, his arms thinner, his skin cast in yellow by the light.

She moved toward him, stumbling on her limp legs, even as he sucked in his breath and curled away from her. Her stomach convulsed.

"I am the daughter you've always wished you had," she whispered.

It started all over again. She fell into his mind, and opened the dam. It was easier this time, perhaps she was getting better at it, or perhaps recent events had created a crack that she merely had to nudge to break it forth.

When she returned once her to her tired ones and containing flesh, she was on the verge of collapse.

The warm yellow of the light on the carpet filled her vision, and then it was dark again.

* * *

He inwardly cursed when she didn't move from the floor. She shouldn't have over-exerted herself like that. She was the brightest witch of her age, but to undo such spellwork, the work of the mind, was often much more difficult than casting it.

She had forgotten herself. She gave herself over to the magic, her will directed it, but still, she had very nearly completely abandoned her body. Her nerves twitched the muscles all along her legs and arms.

He could see it now, and he wished he had confronted her again about dark magic before they had taken this trip. He didn't like to think that he missed things; there had been plenty of clues, but then, he wasn't quite right in the head either.

Something he was supposed to remember about that place where he had been dead threatened to break forth from his mind, but he quashed it by taking charge and attending to the girl.

He knelt beside her in the bed they had allowed him to carry her to. All the while they snapped questions, wondering what _he_ had done to their daughter, to them.

"She did this to save your lives. I'm sure she saw no other way. I'm sure she will explain it adequately once she has had some rest. In peace and quiet," he stated pointedly, looking at the door. They left him finally.

The room was quiet now, at least. The furniture was sparse and crafted of bare wood. He moved to the tall windows and pulled the curtains across them. The dark (though hardly dimmed with all the blasted light in this country) comforted him. He let go of the coarse linen draperies and turned about.

She laid there on top of the bed, a troubled look on her sweaty face. Her shoulders twitched. He sat down in a chair beside her.

As his breaths evened out, he felt his anger vanish, the adrenaline slowing down as his need for it dissipated. They really hadn't rested enough before beginning this, and then he thought, when had he, Severus Snape, spy of two masters, ever had a break?

Perhaps a Prince deserved a break once in a while.

It didn't seem so wrong to wipe the sweat from her face. It was only professional to check her pulse with his fingers, to count the beats as they grew stronger and more even. However, something stopped him from staying there, from staring at her pale face. The fact that he had to peel himself away from her side sent warning bells off in his head.

Damn spells and their side-effects.

* * *

She woke in the dark. Someone had opened the door and the light blinded all but a silhouette of the figure in the doorway.

"I thought… you might need some soup." She recognized her mother's voice, but it was scratchy and hesitant.

She set a tray on the bedside table, and stood up fully. She took a step backwards.

"Wait," Hermione said. She tried to sit a bit, though her muscles protested loudly. "Won't you stay, mum?"

She searched her mind fervently, but everything was so fuzzy. She felt sick all through her body, simply weak. Her mother had always stayed with her when she was sick with the Flu or a cold.

"Won't you stay and hum to me?" Hermione asked, having finally found that warm memory.

"Oh," she said, bringing her palm to the side of her head. Something pained her and then her body straitened. "You must leave as soon as you are able," she commanded.

"Mum?"

"I can't. Oh, I don't know what is in my head anymore. How do I know these memories…and then you were gone, and we were so empty. How could you kill us like that for so long?"

Of course, they were sad and hurt and felt abandoned.

"I can make it better. I can make you forget you ever lost me even for a bit."

"No. We can't. You can't tamper with people's minds, Hermione! It's one thing to make things float and shrink, it's entirely another to change everything in my head. I wasn't even myself, it felt like now. You have all this power, and I know you think you're doing great things, but please, don't make the mistake of thinking you know everything."

Hermione felt the cool breeze from the window. The curtains rustled and thought she glimpsed the moon outside.

"I think you should leave," her mother said again.

"Aren't you going back to London?" she asked.

"My husband and I will decide what to do on our own."

There it was; the exclusion of their only daughter from the family.

Hermione clenched her stomach, trying to breathe evenly. Her lungs moved in spasms, in great gasps she expelled the air from her lungs and fell back onto the pillow. It was hard; this world she had left them in was hard. It was dark and it was hard and she wished for the comfort of her mother's humming.

_The moon is falling through the sky_

_The birds flock to quell the demise_

_The stars whisper their goodbyes_

_And the sun finds its time to rise_

She whispered the words like she had always imagined the stars whispered them to the moon, and her white pillow was the moon and she was falling with it into the damp sea of her tears.

"You didn't tell me of your prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse," he accused. He loomed over her bed like a dark angel. "I have a few things I can try, but I cannot brew here."

She groaned. The room was still dark, and she yawned. The motion sent her mind millions of tiny pain signals from her body.

"No, you thought you would shoulder all the pain and go on like a brave little soldier. A perfect little Order member." He let the door close mostly behind him, swallowing the light until it was one long golden strip. She somehow made the connection that he preferred to stay in a darkened room as well.

"In that case, you're more perfect than I am," she finally managed to spit out. She tested her limbs, wiggling her toes first.

"If you have the audacity to be making jokes, then I suppose the pain isn't so bad that we cannot continue homeward as planned?"

"Oh, my parents-" Her arms twitched. She looked at the closed door. She attempted to sit up, pulling herself up with her weak arms. Then he was beside her, pushing her back up. She hoped he had better night vision than she, as it was she was afraid to get too close to him. She shook her head, then regretted the movement.

"You wish to stay with them for a few days," his voice was low. She imagined she felt the breath of it moving like subtle magic across the short space between them. It tingled in her cheeks.

She looked at him. Her vision was sorting out the blacks and grays of the room, and she could now distinguish the angular planes of his face. She wanted to tell him that she knew the bond might have effects on proximity; that he needed her. But to say that would cross a line, they would be…something. Weren't they family now? Perhaps he didn't know how those worked. At any rate, it seemed like he was her only family now.

"They need time to get used to the memories. They need time to settle back into their life in England," she said instead, letting her head fall back into the headboard. "They need time to forgive me."

Her mother had not changed her mind. When Hermione emerged from the bedroom, she attempted to get closer to her parents. They shrank from her like bowing sunflowers. She could now see the terrible toll the loss of their daughter had taken upon them, even though they had never known it. Well, now they knew it, or thought they did, or didn't know what to think and now the heavy weight of the repercussions of Hermione's actions pushed her out of her parent's house and family.

She wanted to stay and talk and she wanted to leave, to never feel this bad again.

She theorized that perhaps part of them had still known it, known that they had a loved one, a piece of their flesh and blood, out there in the world, perhaps in danger. Blood was powerful, she thought as her own scars tingled. Even as most of her grieved with her parent's suffering, part of her wished to analyze this as a study. To take it away from her heart might save her from some of the pain and guilt.

And so she and Severus had taken a bus back into the city, and they went to the busy airport, the sky still dark around them. She might miss the blatant openness of the sky, as if there was no limit to it. It seemed vaster and more vibrant than her sky back home.

During the plane ride, while Severus Prince finally slept, cheek flush against the window; she pulled down the table from the seat in front of her and wrote in her journal.

She hated feeling so weak. She knew that if her body and magic had not been still healing from the Cruciatus curse, she would not have drained herself quite so thoroughly. As it was, getting on the plane left her body exhausted. Her mind, however, had another task to undertake.

She assembled her arithmathical equations for the ritual she had conducted, so many months -but what seemed like so few days- ago. There was much missing, she didn't have any research material available, but she made do with all of the details she could remember. She recalled her deliberate wording of the spell, the ingredients, and the final plea. She traced the scar that ran along her forearm and felt a shiver tingle. It has started with the ring.

Back to the equations, she added the ring, the blood, her magical signature, into the matrix. The result – the possible result- stilled her pen. She let go and it rolled across the small table. With her freed hand, she ventured a touch of the gleaming gem on her finger.

She had become accustomed to magical residuals and traces of energy. It was a side effect from becoming closer to the dark arts. But this was no residual magic of their familial connection. It was strong; it was in the blood coursing through her body from her head to the tips of her toes and back again through-

It an attempt to jerk away from the offending ring, that same hand flashed to her other side and accidentally knocked against something soft and hard at the same time.

He stirred with a slight growl.

"So sorry if I woke you," she muttered. "We're almost-" Home, she had wanted to say "there."

The sky had lightened once more, and she realized that this trip had taken them two full days. She had spent the last three days with her former-professor, former-enemy-spy-slash-order-martyr, and she still did not know him. She turned the ring about her finger.

"Why must it always be another day?" he asked the window.

She had no answer and assumed he needed none.


	4. Versed Viridian

**Perceiving Pigment**

Chapter Four

**Versed Viridian**

"Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat."

-Mother Teresa

It lingered and she knew that it must be contained.

There was a shadow cast upon her views, upon the nerves that linked each cell to her brain. They told her brain, in pulsating gasps, that there would never be an end to the pain. It was the spawn of dark magic that fed upon her body and tore at her mind.

The pain itself seemed settled now, settled and unsettled, calmed into a dull lull that allowed her to function. If she could accept this state as constancy, perhaps she would be better prepared for the next outbreak. If Snape's cure didn't work for her. The curse itself had been bad, but this was different, as if some other affliction affected her now. Perhaps the curse had merely been the key, and her dark ritual had knocked the door askew, opening the door for the overwhelming darkness to take root in her soul.

He was already moving down the stairs into his lab, and she followed, and calmed her expression into a statue so that when he turned to shoo her away, she was ready. They stood that way, both immovable, like boulders, calm and still.

"Do not disturb the process," he warned. He swiftly continued into the lab. He felt farther away than he had in Australia or on the plane. He had resumed the distance. She looked down at the hardwood floors.

When she entered, she sat on one of the wooden stools and watched. She concentrated on her breath at first, keeping it calm and even, trying to avoid the pain. Then, his ministrations mesmerized her.

It was an art. That is what she had never quite grasped. And Hermione, who excelled in charts and graphs and ordered lists of facts, could never understand the beauty of disorder, of chaos and creation. She might as well have been watching a flower bloom on the telly in flash-forward.

His hands were deft. She thought, if she could ever be worthy of deciding what is beautiful, that those hands would certainly be on her list. The fingers were long, and moved to some unheard lulling music. The ingredients were scattered, but Severus seemed to know exactly where each was and then, only after its use, would she understand the logic of its placement. He moved from salamander eggs across the table to the tarragon.

She could see his actions, noted the precise way he grounded the tarragon, just until the underlying purple color bloomed and the scent wafted out, but the logic was lost to her when he added it to the potion base. In most of the recipes she had encountered, she was able to understand how each ingredient affected the outcome of the potion. But tarragon, which should have exacerbated the current ingredients in the cauldron and at least illicit a color-change, merely settled into the dark blue potion, merging and conforming.

"_Why_ did it do that?" she couldn't help but blurt out. "What formula is this?"

The structures were falling and she needed them. She held on with all she could, seated on the wooden stool, the wood rough against her dangling legs. Despite her firm belief that the world was stable and logical, the structures were breaking.

"There is no formula," Snape said in measured tones, his hands continuing their deft work. "There is a certain balance –but all experiments involve breaking the balance in order to find new combinations and configurations. We tip the scales in order to right them again, getting ever closure to perfection."

His words stirred her on in a dreamy haze. So much so that she did not realize her obvious staring. He turned toward her with a scowl, herbs half-mashed in the mortar.

"I will need some aloveritis. Fresh. Might you be capable of such a simple task?" he snapped.

"Of course." He immediately turned back to his work. She finished, lamely, "Thank you for allowing me to help."

But really, his meaning was plainer than his words; she was not welcome to watch him work.

She found a back door easily enough. The grounds held a garden, a section of it full of herbs and vegetables and beyond that a grove of trees that filled the spaces in-between the hills. The aloeveritis would be wild most likely; she set for the hills.

The greenery whispered poems, verses from the era when they had been so revered. Maybe they did hold the answers in their dirt-crusted roots, in their dew-covered leaves, in their magic that was hidden somewhere in those atoms, waiting for the right combination of ingredients to emerge, sometimes more powerful than direct spells.

She'd thought that the fresh air would do her good. But the dampness of England contrasted with and reminded her of the dryness of Australia and the desert where she had left her parents. Where they had left her.

She wondered briefly if these feelings, the loss and pain, could be made better by her friends. But this was the type of pain she'd rather endure on her own. It was, after all, her own fault. Perhaps in time she would be able to--

But time was quickly passing by them, and it always whirled faster, and she had always stood by a plan, a guide to get her through each day and year. And now she had none. _Get better_, was the best she could think of, or _become unbroken again_. But if she could no longer be her past self, who was she to become?

She lay down amongst the overgrown grass and broken branches and wilted flowers, the last summer flowers beginning their death for the fall. She looked up through the green in a vision blurred by tears. The colors melded into great blotches of shapes, the green becoming grey against the pallid sky.

She thought about what it might be like to die. All she could feel were rocks digging into her spine, a welcome counterpoint to the constant pain. It interrupted, reminded her that things could change. But it would take her own actions to do so.

She bolted up, the rocks digging farther into her bottom, the debris and dirt getting under her fingernails as she half-scrambled into a proper thinking position.

She had been so selfish. So blinded by her pain, she had forgotten that _he_ was going through something much worse. Perhaps he had cured the physical pain, would cure hers, but there would linger all those years he spent, alone and abrasive with only his mind and memories, to remind him of his purpose. If she felt so alone now, how could she contemplate what he was going through, had gone through?

Did she really think that she could save him and let him go? No, she'd had no time to think, and that last attempt had been desperate, she thinking only that he deserved a second chance. Even if it took away some of her own freedoms.

Why did it have to be so bad? She was mostly certain that he knew of their connection. He kept a certain distance from her, as she knew he did with everyone, but the tell was the way his neck tightened, shortening only slightly. And the way her magic seemed to reach out to him, grasping for some sort of connection. The fact that he hadn't confronted her could mean several different things.

_He was looking for a way out._

_He was letting her have the illusion of freedom for as long as possible._

Or_, it disgusted him so thoroughly that he was allowing _himself_ the illusion of freedom for as long as possible._

The last seemed least likely from what she knew of his character, though she supposed that she probably did disgust him. At the least in the fact that she had been such a pain to him as a student.

At long last she found the object of her quest, and set about her return journey. He was not in the lab. It was already cleaned and gutted, looking much like they had previously found it. The next most likely place was where she found him, the library. He was seated in what she already thought of as his chair, the velvet green wingback monstrosity.

She made her offering, the fresh cut leaves she knew he did not really need.

He handed over the bottled vial.

"This particular recipe was keyed to my magic, but-"

"We are connected by magic," she said. There was only one way to see if that connection was enough. She downed the vial. It tasted bitter and left her tongue with that scorched fuzzy feeling.

The room seemed to brighten somewhat, the colors more vibrant. Out the window she could see the leaves of the oak tree brushing up against the windowpane and even through the glass she knew its green, fresh scent. Then she noticed his stare, the impenetrable fortress of his face. However, the space in his eyes beckoned her, falling deep, back into worlds she could not begin to imagine. She went forward, wanting to _know_.

She was so close now, his skin warming her skin, her fingers lightly following the harsh angles of his face, embracing the scratchy texture. When her eyes were all but lost in his, she went forward still, her nose against his rough face. He smelled like the freshly ground tarragon, and she wondered what it tasted like.

He slammed her away from him with an abhorrent force of magic. She flew back, her torso hitting the mantle and stopping her lungs. It took her a few seconds before she could draw in a shuddering breath.

If she could have, she might have laughed. Trading in one pain for another, how thoughtless. How unlike Hermione Granger.

She looked up, and only just realized that Snape was yelling at her, the sounds were almost starting to form coherent words and sentences, drifting to her ears, now magnified like she had finally taken off the earmuffs.

***

How could she be so stupid? He knew the potion would relax her, would convince the pain to lessen its constant torment, but must it addle her brains so? He found himself, yelling, mouth moving so harshly that his teeth clinked against each other as his jaws snapped, again and again. She did not seem to be listening, but was sprawled across the rug where she had fallen. Her robes had scrunched up and she did not even have the grace to pull them down over her bare legs. Merlin, how was a man supposed to function against such temptation?

His tirade was broken by a very stern face appearing in the fireplace. The now green flames licked about the lined, familiar face.

"Professor McGonagall!" the girl exclaimed. She scrambled up from the floor, finally pulling her robes back down over her legs where they had frightfully twisted upward.

The witch raised one eyebrow, then turned her attention to Snape.

"I was wondering if this might be a good time to call upon you, Severus?"

"Minerva," he drawled, settling back into his old speech patterns. "How unexpected. You may enter through the floo when you wish."

He liked this room, despite the oak tree that encroached upon the large windows and threatened to tap against the glass with its long branches. It looked too green, too cheerful. She, the cursed succubus, avoided his gaze.

The older witch stepped through with grace, with a step that was solid and sure.

"So it is true. You are both alive and well." Well was hardly the word, but he grunted in affirmation.

"The news I have concerns both of you. Because of your recent relation and bond, only one of you may accept my offer of returning to Hogwarts."

He immediately jumped in.

"She shall return, of course. I am no longer welcome at Hogwarts."

"Very well. Miss Grang- Prince, I shall see you on the first of September. "

"That's it?" the girl asked, her eyes wide with incredulity. He inwardly groaned. Nothing was ever easy with her. "You're going to let your old colleague simply push you away like that? You deserve to go back to Hogwarts if you so wish. Dumbledore would've wanted you to do whatever you wanted now, and you've earned it. A choice, you've earned a choice."

"And if it is not my decision to go back? I have plenty that I would rather be doing than babysitting students, more than half whom are too incompetent to brew anything without exact supervision. Perhaps I do have my own dreams, and they do not involve pandering to the whims of young imbeciles." Of course, he was talking about something else entirely now, and he wondered at the strength of her stubbornness. He was reminded of the day he woke up to find her flinging hexes at the front door, with so much vigor and life. She had youth and energy and the world spread before her in all its glorious possibilities and he would not take that away from another.

"Then do not deign to make my decisions as well." She set her jaw.

"As if you _wouldn't_ chose to go back to Hogwarts, to what you know and love. As if you would chose the unknown."

"Enough!" Minerva snapped. "I suspected you might need to get away from each other. Would you like to come to my office, Hermione?"

She turned stoically back to her professor.

"Here will suffice. I would like to sit my exams early. I may consider staying at Hogwarts while I prepare, if that would be agreeable?"

"I think we might be able to work something out, though I would like you to complete a full seventh year, I think some exceptions can be made. Have you considered what you would like to do after your exams?"

"There are many things I would like to try. I am still unsure."

The fact that the young witch could admit to being unsure about anything, much less her career choice, was curious. Perhaps she, like him, had not expected to survive. He turned away from the thought.

"I am certain you will have plenty of offers for placement, training or apprenticeship. Please come by my office tomorrow. The semester starts in little over a week."

Snape saw the old woman turn toward him, and something in her indomitable will falter, some uncounted shift in her spine, perhaps. He never liked being pitied.

"Will you forgive me, Severus? For ever doubting?" the witch nearly whispered, her steel eyes softened in this rare moment.

"It only worked because you doubted," he stated, the lazy afternoon turning the room golden as the sunlight slanted through the trees and into the library.

"I'm glad you're still alive. And that you chose to live."

But he hadn't. But then, why _was_ he still alive?

"Go," he said. She left, green flames crackling. "Go," he said again, and she, her eyes large and her mouth puckered, opening to speak, teasing him with the sweet glistening underside of her lower lip-

"Go," he said again.

He sat until the sun darkened at the horizon and the shadows drew up over his angled frame and the trees outside looked like dementors, crashing in the wind.


End file.
